Happily Ever After
by Firestar9mm
Summary: If you're so smart, how would YOU end a story about us?


**Author's Introduction:**

This was my piece on DeviantART for the DPTruth contest, writer's objective. I have an entry in for the artist's objective, too, but naturally I can't display that here.

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**Happily Ever After**

A _Danny Phantom_ Halloween vignette by Firestar9mm

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_Skeletal hands raked across the ghost boy's Haz-mat suit, and he knew that even if he broke free of them, he'd be feeling the shadow of their touch a long time after. _

"_Isn't it cliché of you guys to be out on Halloween?" he wheezed, feeling the need to pun in the face of danger. "Throw me a bone here, fellas!"_

_The only answer was rattling moans from the dead at his feet. Bleached fingers scratched at the air like dead branches, searching for him._

_Maybe they didn't think he was funny. Judging by the snapping of their broken teeth, they'd probably think he was **tasty** if they got to him…_

_Bony fingers seized his ankle and tugged sharply; he was unable to stop a gasp from escaping him, surprised at its strength. The moment's hesitation was enough—more hands shot out of the dark dirt to clamp onto him, and struggles were suddenly useless. The icy moon bobbed further out of his reach as the hardened ground rose to meet him very fast._

_Hands on his arms, immobilizing his wrists, snaking around his ankles, clawing at his chest._ _And then he was down far enough for them to reach his face and a scream nearly tore from his throat at the scent of decay, but another of the invasive hands silenced it before it came. Shudders rippled through him, and it wasn't from the cold air. Despite their rotting joints, the hands locked onto him like iron shackles, rising from their graves to drag him down to one of his own on a Halloween night…_

_Thin brittle fingers blocked out the moonlight, and he fought to see between them, trying not to give in to the fatigue in his limbs. **I don't want to die like this, in a sea of flesh and bones…**_

_And then Sam's voice came, fevered on the chill of the October wind. "Danny! Danny, help!"_

_The thought of those awful hands holding her fast made his blood boil. New determination lighting his eyes, Danny Phantom gathered his strength and tore loose from the skeletal mob with a fierce yell. A minute ago he'd been almost resigned to giving in to Death's grip, but he would **not**_ _allow it to hurt those he cared about most—

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_

"Okay, that's it," Sam said, slamming her hands down on the floor of the ops center. "Tucker, you are _not _having me get captured again."

Danny wanted to laugh at her outraged expression, but she had a point. Gesturing with a half-eaten Butterfinger, he agreed aloud. "You stink at telling stories, Tuck. It's always the same—I throw overdramatic catchphrases around for most of it, then break out completely irrelevant kung-fu to save Sam, who's been kidnapped by ghosts."

Tucker glared at them both, his face looking eerie in the glow of the flashlight he held beneath his chin. "Everyone's a critic," he pouted, taking a large bite out of a Three Musketeers to console himself.

It was getting close to the witching hour on Halloween night, and Danny, Sam and Tucker had retreated to the Fenton Ops Center with their haul. Wrappers already littered the floor amidst discarded parts of their costumes. Their flashlights threw spooky shadows on the walls, and they were armed with blankets, pillows, and enough candy and soda to last till _next_ Halloween.

After sorting and dividing the candy along with a heated discussion on who in the neighborhood had come up with the worst costume (Dash's Danny Phantom costume had horrified the real Danny, but Lancer's Shakespeare outfit had definitely not been meant for a man of the overweight teacher's massive girth), they'd moved on to ghost stories. Years ago, Danny had given up on trying to scare Sam—she only reveled in the macabre, so he'd decided instead on a funny story about a vampire who couldn't seem to do anything right. Well, _he'd_ thought it was funny and Sam had laughed at least—Tucker had spent most of it nervously sucking on Milk Duds, so maybe it had been scarier than he'd realized.

Sam's story _was_ scary, about a village of women who lured ships to destruction and then stole the contents of the hold. Tucker gnawed on a Twix and clutched his flashlight; Danny tried to remain stoic and unimpressed—if Sam realized she was frightening him, she'd lord it over him till Thanksgiving!—but he was secretly grateful to have a blanket to hide his shivering.

And then it had been Tucker's turn to tell a story, and he'd put a twist on it by casting his friends as the stars. As much as he tried to hide it behind technology and girl-watching, Tucker had a creative mind. It was such a shame that all of his efforts to turn their adventures into entertainment sounded like horrible fan fiction.

"We'll give you points for trying, Tucker," he said aloud, feeling bad for ragging on his best friend.

Tucker's eyebrows met over his glasses. "I am sick of points for trying, dude! There's no pleasing you people. _You_," he said to Danny, pointing an accusing finger and jabbing the air between them, "are too much of an…_unconventional_ hero. Your punning is rusty at best, and normally you're too busy kicking ecto-butt to work on a really good line. And _you_—" The finger swung to Sam. "—are too…_capable_. If I _didn't_ have you get captured, you'd just free yourself and start kicking some ecto-butt of your own, and Danny would have nothing to do."

Danny and Sam exchanged amused glances, then smiled at the techno-geek, chorusing, "Thanks!"

Tucker waved a hand. "Yeah, yeah, whatever."

"How come you never put _yourself _in these stories you tell, Tucker?" Sam asked.

The techno-geek finally grinned. "I'd save the day in two minutes flat and _neither_ of you would have anything to do."

Sam snorted and threw a peanut butter cup at him. Danny rolled his eyes; he'd never say aloud that he thought Tucker often needed more saving than Sam. "I think it's time to break out the orange Double-Stuf Oreos, guys." Sounds of happy agreement met his ears and Sam dug them out of a shopping bag, smiling fondly.

"Don't feel so bad, Tucker," she said. "It's not your fault you can't tell stories about us. How could we improve on something that's already so cool to begin with?"

It was an interesting concept, and Tucker's eyes lit up. "Hey, yeah—we _already_ rule!"

They high-fived across a package of Twizzlers, and Danny felt a smile tugging at his lips—as well as his heart. For all Sam and Tucker argued, they were the best of pals.

"If you guys are so _smart_," Tucker challenged through a mouthful of Oreo, "how would _you_ finish a story about us?"

Instead of trying to think of a witty comeback, as Sam was obviously doing—her eyes were alight with mischief and her smile dug a dimple in her cheek—Danny looked at them, really _looked_ at them. Tech-savvy Tucker, always ready with a PDA, a USB cable, a pun and a grin; capable Sam with her lion's heart and her sun-steady loyalty. His two best friends.

The clarity of his voice surprised him in the sudden quiet of the room. "_And they all lived happily ever after_," he said.

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**Author's Notes:**

'Tis the season. Happy Halloween (smile)


End file.
